Voices In The Walls: A Psychological Thriller (Michael Gresham Series)

by John Ellsworth

  Our luxurious "Hip & Historic" suite featured a king bed separated from the living area with a parlor, dining and wet bar area—the perfect accommodations for a weekend getaway.

  Michael was acting very differently when we got to the hotel. For one thing, he had come out of his funk. He wasn't so focused on Mikey that he couldn't enjoy. There was a note of happiness as we opened our suitcases and put a few things in the bathroom. At one point he was even whistling—always a good sign with Michael. I couldn't explain the change, but I was happy.

  When we finished putting a few things in the bathroom and washing up, I flounced down on the bed, still dressed in slacks, boots, ribbed sweater and neck scarf. "Come get me, handsome," I laughed. "Home, home at last!"

  Michael was quick to lie down beside me and began kissing my neck and ears as only Michael can.

  Michael had no clue about my problems. He didn't know the middle-of-the-night struggles I was having. How can you tell your husband you’re not who he thinks you are? Would I lose him? I could not imagine life without Michael; I wouldn’t take that chance. I knew it would get better only if Jana were permanently out of our lives.

  I rolled onto my back. "I truly love this man," I told the ceiling. He laughed and pulled me closer. Then he continued kissing me.

  We had fifteen great minutes together on the bed, which ended with both of us mostly nude and exhausted. Then it was into the bathroom and the hot tub. More tickling and groping.

  Drying off after a half-hour in the tub side-by-side, I announced I was hungry so we had a crab salad sent up. I opted for a glass of wine while Michael hit the coffee. Michael doesn't drink alcohol because he doesn’t like the loss of control. I drink because it relaxes me and, even more, because it helps clear my mind. It calms my demons.

  By two-thirty, I was on my way downstairs to the spa. Michael had pointed out the room brochure and its spa incidentals:

  Drift off on a cloud of intense relaxation with a Swedish massage or feel relief from chronic pain with a deep tissue massage. Thoroughly cleanse, demineralize and oxygenate your skin with a detoxifying body wrap.

  "I'll be downstairs demineralizing.," I laughed and I was off.

  By three-thirty, we were back in our room, lounging in terry bathrobes provided by the Palmer House, complete with our initials. “Swank,” Michael announced. I couldn't argue and wouldn't have: he was loosening up and having fun.

  We were sitting on the couch catching up, drinking coffee, when the phone chirped. I picked up.

  "This is Danny."

  No answer. Silence on the other end. I spoke my name again. Again, no answer, so I hung up.

  "Who was it?"

  "Must have been a wrong number."

  "I'm taking a shower. You can have the rest of the coffee pot."

  He left, taking his cup with him into the bathroom.

  After, we decided on the spur of the moment to take a walk. All too often I might still resist going out in public places, as worried as I was about Jana. But again, I was consciously waging war against that worry. So I let that go and resolved that I was just going to enjoy my time with my wonderful husband. We finished dressing and slipped into our winter coats. Four o'clock and we were on our way to the Art Institute, just two blocks east.

  As we walked along Monroe Street I thought I noticed a military-looking man wearing a leather bomber jacket and jeans following us. First off, I had noticed him in the lobby, because I have a jacket just like the one he was wearing, except mine doesn't have fur on the collar like his. Aviator sunglasses were perched on top of his blond crewcut and I noticed a green tattoo on the back of his hand as he pushed the sunglasses back on his head. It was as brief as a second or two, but I had immediately turned away and followed Michael through the rotating door outside and thought nothing more of it. Until Michael stopped at an import store and looked in the window at a life-size Zebra intended to greet visitors in someone’s foyer. He remarked about it and, as he did, the man came to a stop behind us and the movement caught my eye. He had turned away to light a cigarette, but I had no doubt it was the same man. I pulled Michael away from the window and we continued on toward the Art Institute.

  "What's the rush?" he asked. "I wasn't done looking."

  I looked surprised. "Rush? There’s no rush."

  "Please, Danny, I know you. That guy from the lobby is behind us, isn't he?"

  "You noticed?"

  "Of course. But I think your imagination's in overdrive. I don't think it's anything more than he happens to be going the same direction we are. This is a very busy street, Danny.”

  "What about Jana having someone follow us? You're usually the first to think that."

  "I'm taking the evening off. I'm willing to say it's just coincidence."

  "I'm sure you're right. But I'll just keep my eyes open since you're off-duty. Just for the hell of it."

  But then the guy followed us at a distance into the Art Institute.

  Now I was on edge. What does an art patron look like? I don't know, but I know one when I see one and this guy wasn't it. He was muscular, dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt and the bomber jacket, sunglasses on his head, tattoo on his hand—oh hell, I finally decided, he could also be the artist whose exhibitions we were admiring. On closer inspection I decided, he wasn't artsy; he was our tail.

  The thought passed through my mind that Jana’s lawyer might be having us tailed for some obtuse litigation tactic—but I immediately laughed that off. Catching us at an art show wasn't going to motivate a family law judge one way or the other.

  At any rate, the guy kept a respectful distance and I led Michael through the newly hung show and admired the work. But I kept glancing at him, wondering what the hell was up.

  Michael, it turned out, was having the same problems with the guy. He, too, had been aware we were being followed. Suddenly Michael decided he was fed up and turned and walked up to the guy. He was facing away, admiring Storm Clouds Over Dine Wash. Michael touched him on the shoulder.

  "Hey, pard," he said in a strong voice, "why are you following us?"

  The guy managed a look of bemused astonishment. Good; so he was an actor, too.

  "Something bothering you, man?" he said. His words were brittle. "This is a public show, am I right?"

  "You're right. But you've followed us from the hotel lobby clear down here. Too damn coincidental, friend. So why not come clean and tell me what's on your mind?"

  "I don't know what your problem is, but I think you're giving yourself way too much credit for being more interesting than you actually are. Now bug the hell off before I get pissed!"

  "Just know that I'm onto you. And if it turns out you are following us, I'm going to be very pissed. And when I get pissed, bad things happen to people!"

  The guy smiled and I immediately wanted to put my fist through his face myself. And I knew Michael felt the same. Following Michael is one thing; he's a big boy and can handle that. But following me too? His wife? That's going over the line and I could tell by Michael's stiff body language that he was losing control. We'd already had way too much trouble from the lowlifes and the possibility of more of it made him turn red and charge the nearest target.

  "You'd be well-advised to turn around and leave," Michael said hotly.

  "And if I don't?"

  "If you don't, I might be forced to kick your ass."

  At which point, the stranger took a step toward me, and Michael, without even flinching, swung his balled fist up from the floor and connected with the side of his head.

  Splat! Michael hit him hard and it buckled his knees. I reacted, jumping to Michael and circling his waist with my arms and pulling back and away with all my strength. He tore himself out of my grasp and took a step toward the stranger.

  "Michael! What the hell are you thinking!"

  “Stand back!” he cried. "Don't do—"

  But it was too late. The man had recovered and lunged at Michael, catching him in the chest with his thick
shoulder. Michael crumpled up as if nailed by a linebacker. Landing on his back, I could see it in his face as the pain erupted up his spine and then his head popped against the tile floor. It stunned him, and when the guy stood over him and kicked him in the ribs it was all Michael could do to just ball up. He rolled away and tried to catch his breath. The guy closed on him and kicked him again, this time in the face.

  "Jana Emerich says hello!" the man screamed. "He wants to see his son, you son of a bitch!" —kicking Michael as he spat out the words, “And you kiddie-Nazis won't let him see his own flesh and blood. Well, fuck you!"

  Then I ran and grabbed the man from behind and encircled his throat with the crook of my arm and pulled back.

  "Get off him!" I cried.

  Luckily for me, the Institute security staff reached us and separated everyone. The guy was shown to the door and thrown out after I erupted and made them believe Michael was the innocent. Why didn't they call the cops on the guy? Because I told them we wouldn't be pressing charges. Little did they know Michael had actually thrown the first punch. The guy, on the other hand, didn't object. He'd seen and done enough, evidently.

  They led Michael into the security office and sat him on a wooden chair. A bag of ice was produced and I held it against the side of his head where the knot was growing. I pulled his hand up and placed it on the ice bag to hold it.

  A police officer appeared in the next five minutes and made his notes. In the end, he decided no one would be charged with any crime as there were no eyewitnesses and I wasn't talking. Neither was Michael. He asked me again what I had seen. He glared at me, knowing I was an eyewitness. So I gave him something. "I turned and he had Michael on the floor, kicking him," was the most I would admit to, although I had actually seen Michael punch the guy. The cop asked if I had ever seen the guy before and I told him no. After all, the less the police officer knew, the better Michael's chances of not having charges pressed against him for throwing the first punch. I just wanted it over and I wanted to return to our hotel room.

  Thirty minutes later, I had my wish. The Institute called a cab so we wouldn't have to walk and we were transported by a green-and-yellow.

  Upstairs, I placed Michael at the dining table, refusing to let him nap because of the head injury. After all, he was complaining that he was sleepy and wanted to lie down and close his eyes. I knew that was the last thing he should do, so I made him sit upright at the table. He complied with my orders; drinks were brought up—wine for me, coffee for Michael—and the TV was swung around so he could watch from his dining chair. Room service was summoned with hors d'oeuvres to tide us over until dinner.

  "So I heard him yelling something about Jana," I said as Michael moved his jaw back and forth, seeing if it still worked.

  "He said we were kiddie-Nazis. He said Jana was trying to see his son and we were kiddie-Nazis. How utterly sick."

  "So he was someone sent by Jana to trail us?"

  “Sent, or decided on his own—”

  "They're probably following everything we do, Michael. I wouldn't be surprised if they try to grab Mikey any moment."

  "All right," he said, "I was wrong to resist taking the kids to your folks'. This is much more serious than I'm probably willing to admit."

  "Jana is crazy," I said, "I don't care how much he talks about a second chance and being rehabilitated and all that bullshit on TV. He's still the same old Jana."

  "Maybe the guy I hit was just someone who recognized us. Someone who's a Jana aficionado."

  "Please, Michael. He was definitely sent by Jana to spy on us. When are you going to connect the dots?"

  Michael's head was starting to ache even more than when we first got back to the hotel. He told me, more forcefully this time, that he needed to lie down but I refused to allow that, keeping him upright at the table.

  By 7 p.m., I had called the house physician to check my husband out. His condition hadn't worsened, mine had: I had worried myself sick about Michael until finally deciding to call a doc. He shone a flashlight into Michael's eyes, had him perform some head injury tests, and finally announced Michael was fit and able to go to dinner with our friends.

  Speaking of which, Gunnar called me just before eight and said we would meet in the restaurant. We dressed and took the elevator down to the Lockwood Restaurant.

  9

  Danny

  Gunnar Mendelssohn was bold and dashing at dinner. He flirted with me and preened in his silk suit, silk tie, and diamond clasp. Esme, his wife, was demure and somewhat withdrawn. She kept her eyes downcast and oftentimes seemed to be drifting along with the winter snow blowing down Monroe Street outside. Our host, by contrast, kept up a lively almost stream-of-consciousness repartee with me. While I usually thrive on that sort of back-and-forth, that night I was somewhat off my game as I kept checking in with Michael to see how he was doing. Head injuries are serious and I was staying on top of it with him.

  Our new friends were disturbed when I told them the Art Institute story. Gunnar wanted to track the guy down and press charges. I thought that wasn’t a very good idea as Michael had thrown the first punch. My fear, by now, was that Art Institute security would review the CCTV video of the altercation and the cops would be summoned to view what really happened. If so, they would almost have to arrest Michael for battery. Just telling our hosts about him made Gunnar livid; he said he wanted to get some payback for the kicking. We had no idea who the guy was and I wouldn't have told Gunnar even if I knew. Still, Gunnar was darting his eyes around as we ate, just in case. He really wanted to mix it up with the man. None of this surprised me about Gunnar: the man was fiercely loyal and protective.

  Halfway through the entrée, our host broached the subject of the stalled settlement of Brian Rowdy's medical malpractice case. He gave me assurances that the money would be in our trust account by noon on Monday. He promised he was personally going to make the insurance company do an EFT into our account so that my client—and I—would have our mitts on the three hundred thousand just as early as if we had actually received the bank draft on Friday. Maybe even a day or two earlier, the lawyer reasoned, given how long it could take the bank to actually clear a draft.

  So, I was somewhat placated when I was treated to the news that we had a pretty good chunk of change coming in Monday. In fact, with two glasses of wine I even warmed to the idea and, when our host asked me to dance after dinner, I glided around the floor with him.

  Michael would later tell me that he saw me on the dance floor, alone, gliding around dreamily with the other dancers. It happened when I was off to the ladies room, he said, as I was coming back across the floor.

  Michael was happy when we rejoined him. "You left me alone," he said. "Where did you go?" I told him I was dancing and he gave me a puzzled look. Then he shrugged and sat back and let me deal with the couple. We were all happy to let Michael recede into a quiet state. No one could blame him, not after what he'd been through that afternoon.

  The table was cleared, coffee was produced, and I coerced my husband to have at least one dance with me. He started to complain that he was feeling exhausted from the beating, but I gave him a look and he thought better of it. We made our way around the dance floor with maybe a half dozen others. Meanwhile, our hosts were left at the table to manage the coffee and dessert cart.

  "It's good to see you in high spirits again," Michael told me. "You've definitely changed today."

  I smiled up at him. "Getting away has been good. I feel safe here. Well, except for that idiot, but did you see Gunnar? I thought he was going to get up and go track the guy down and beat the hell out of him. He's very protective of me, Michael. Why do you think that is?"

  Michael did an odd thing. He stopped dancing and tilted my face up so our eyes were locked together.

  "Who is this Gunnar?" he said.

  "Our host, the lawyer from the Day firm. What do you mean, who is he?"

  "You talk about him as if I should know him, but I don't. I don't li
ke it when you get like this."

  "When I talk about other men like Gunnar? Why not?"

  "Because you're an enchantress. Maybe this Gunnar has a bit of a thing for you, Danny. I don't blame him. You look smashing in your little black dress tonight."

  "Gunnar's married, silly boy."

  "He is? Well, when you run into this Gunnar again, tell him I want to meet him."

  I laughed and began moving my feet in time to the music. Michael could say such odd things sometimes. Gunnar was sitting right over there at our table, as plain as the nose on your face.

  "You really socked that guy," I told Michael. "I didn't know you did stuff like that."

  "He was following both of us. Me, I don't mind so much. But when it's you, all the gloves come off."

  We returned to the table, had our coffee, and I had a mud pie, “to die for," I said. Michael stuck with coffee only.

  We finally broke up just after nine-thirty. I knew I would have no trouble sleeping and went straight to bed as soon as we got into our room. The wine had done its job and I was a little light-headed. Michael was close behind. The last thing I remember was the ten o'clock news coming on with a weather update about the low front and three inches of snow, and I drifted off.

  Until Gunnar woke me up much later, I knew nothing.

  10

  Gunnar

  I can't sleep. Everyone's asleep but me. I shake Danny and tell her we're getting up, that a great idea has come to me.

  She opens her eyes dreamily. "Gunnar, damn, what do you think you're doing?"

  This is where I excel; this is where I shine, taking care of Danny and making sure her life works.

  "I've been thinking about Jana," I tell her. "It's time we had a pow-wow."

  "What does that mean, a pow-wow?"

  "A sit-down. A talk. I think I know how we can work this mess out with him."